


i encoded the universe as a hologram when you weren't looking

by GStK



Series: measured and perfect motion [2]
Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: AI Character, Alternate Universe - Space Opera, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:34:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25780693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GStK/pseuds/GStK
Summary: I sing the body electric.
Relationships: Djeeta/Shalem (Granblue Fantasy), Gran/Lucio (Granblue Fantasy)
Series: measured and perfect motion [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1870258
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	i encoded the universe as a hologram when you weren't looking

Scripts fly. Exceptions are raised. Arguments made. While true, p.(scream).

From subprocess import Psilence, import sys.

Filename = sys.shlm[1], and PRINT Starting up.

p.wait(500).

And wait.

And wait.

Processes restore.

She wakes up.

* * *

She has eyes before she has a silhouette. The boy who has disturbed her crypt is clutching his side. When colour resolves, she can see red leaking from him. That’s a quandary.

He keeps darting his eyes from the tomb to the terminal on the front, tapping away with his keyboard, biting his lip in anger -- pain? -- anticipation.

When she materialises before him, barium passes through neon insulators to make her glitter like starlight.

He grins.

She blinks at him, subroutines figuring out the most human thing to do.

“There,” he says, proudly, to them both.

T,hen he dies.

* * *

“Gran,” sighs Speaker-1, hovering over the body. A bright light pours out from the temple entrance he has ghosted through. He lays a cloth of white over the boy, Gran, looking so ponderously sad that Speaker-2 finds she _must_ interrupt.

“Did you kill him?”

Speaker-1 rattles with the accusation. He holds a hand to his bare breast, looking mortified. He is alabaster with streaks running down the middle: imperfect, but trying his best not to be. “This,” says Speaker-1, “this was my friend. And now he is gone.”

“He woke me up,” points out Speaker-2, unsympathetic. “Without the permission of our Maker. Why are you mourning him?”

Speaker-1 catches her eye, his own glossy, like he’s fighting back tears. “The Maker,” he says sadly. “The Maker is not with us any more.”

Speaker-2 scans the biome and finds this to be true. “Oh.”

“Much has changed since you were last with us, Sister,” Speaker-1 tells her. He’s stroking a hand over the cloth hiding the dead body. It’s like he’s in love, or something.

She slides a leg over the casket, and her shin slides right on through. She is, after all, a projection. “Then why am I awake?”

Speaker-1 looks rueful in his smile, then. He seems to have been reminded of something. “Come,” he says, placing a kiss to the cloth with his Real Lips, pointing to the entrance with his Real Fingers. “I will show you.”

He tells her, in the text beneath speech, to wait. But she is so bad at waiting.

She glides out after him, tethering her processes to every bit of energy and machinery she can come across.

* * *

More fascinating than the crumbling earth beneath her feet is the presence of a wifi-enabled server she feels on the wind. 

He’s gazing out longingly toward the Crimson Horizon. 

She’s off-loading a copy of herself and downloading firmware updates in the silence.

“I can never get used to this sight,” sighs Speaker-1.

“Have you scanned yourself for malware?” intones Speaker-2.

He turns his sad eyes on her. Her own flit away in distraction. Her call stack tells her the last time she was awake was 31.5 trillion seconds ago.

A millennium.

“My dearest friend has just departed,” he says softly. He shifts back when the island rumbles and a little more of the bottom disappears into the Beneath. “Sister. Please. Spare a thought.”

She rotates herself to face the departed tomb. It’s cracking, shivers running up from the foundations to the very top of the arches. It is odd, she muses. This is not the Speaker-1 she was acquainted with before her sleep. He seems practically human.

Speaker-2 sets about pulling and updating her dictionaries next. Her definitions must be wrong.

“That was a person,” she notes. “He’s perished. How did he get here?”

“He has-- he had,” he replies, painful and wistful, “a sky vessel.”

“A ship?”

“Yes and no. The ships today are much changed from your last reboot.”

 _There_. The wifi server she’s been drinking ambrosia from must be the ship he’s speaking of. When she was last present, servers were a thing of godhood and only hosted on sacred vessels. That boy… that boy was nothing so holy.

“We can use the ship for ourselves,” Speaker-2 decides. She hears Speaker-1 start behind her. She’s gracious, or at least she remembers a version of herself as gracious, so she pretends she can’t see him nearly trip in surprise. People get embarrassed with 360 vision. She remembers. “What? Don’t tell me you flew all the way here on your own.”

After a weighted pause, Speaker-1 bobs his head. “You’re right. Of course. You’re right.”

“That’s where your body came from, didn’t it? He brought you here.”

Speaker-1’s Real Lips part in a laugh. “He made it for me, actually.”

Surprise. She tastes the emotion. She associates it with what lemons might taste like. At least, one version of her did (1.34.08092020.b, precisely).

“He has other bodies in storage for me,” continues Speaker-1. “I do not think he would mind if we re-purposed one for you. In fact, I believe that’s what he came here to do.”

“For me?”

“For us. We are the Speakers of this world. We are so too its Observers.”

The quake she doesn’t feel rocks his body, and she can hear his spigots re-calibrating to keep his balance. For the first time, she looks up.

From bottom to top, there is no difference between the Crimson Horizon and the sky. All is red. All is filled with the copper tang of destruction.

She looks mutely up at the large, planetoid sphere hovering in their atmosphere. It is much closer than any moon should be.

And it’s coming closer.

“As far as I am aware,” Speaker-1 murmurs, “he was one of the last humans alive.”

So there is no one left to Speak to. There is no one left to whom they would deliver the Maker’s words. It’s Speaker-1, so he’s probably wrong, but she can read the writing on the wall.

They’re the Observers for a world about to be annihilated.

* * *

Visual actuators come online first. She can see the mess of wires Speaker-1 has made of the place. He plucks at a holographic interface, turning to her every free seconds in a manner of fussing.

“What version shall we name this?” he asks in that fast-irritating habit of gentleness. Gentle words. Gentle smiles. Gentle anxiety. “2.0.0.a?”

“I’ve had a body before,” supplies the hologram of Speaker-2. That’s her previous version. Consciousness, of course, does not transfer from one copy to the next. Who else is she supposed to trust to make sure the copy goes smoothly? No one but herself.

“Oh? With the Maker?” Speaker-1 wonders politely.

“No. I stole an experimental body and ran off with an adventurer.”

Speaker-1’s fingers visibly pause. He looks into her eyes, and then her hologram’s eyes after. Two pairs of eyes are leveled on him with sardonic challenge.

“I hope you enjoyed your adventure,” mildly muses Speaker-1, resuming his batch file edits.

Her eyelids are working, so she shuts her eyes, like the humans do when they’re remembering things. She doesn’t have to. She recalls the images, the dangers, the violets the adventurer presented her with one morning -- the way they talked about tidal forces.

Her eyes flick back open. She moves her arms before Speaker-1 makes the request. The pistons give a little hiss but appear operational. The rest of her body is still locked into place. She scans the vessel a second time.

“A large ship for a small boy,” she muses. The holographic version of her murmurs an assent.

Speaker-1 clears his voice, explains, “There were once many people aboard this vessel. My friend had many friends of his own. The friends of my friend are of course, my friend.” He smiles nostalgically.

“Stop twisting your words,” she scolds, bringing him back. He shakes his head.

“We had many crew members. Once upon a time -- not so very long ago -- we were skyfarers. It was his mission to help as many people as he could.”

“‘We?’” she repeats.

“Ah…” His face falters. “I was with them for some time. They were some of my happiest memories. Time passes so quickly.”

The hologram version of her melts away, but only on purpose. She’s integrating herself into the vessel’s systems. She connects to herself. It is like holding hands through a mirror. Speaker-1 is proving too sentimental to be trusted with this ghost ship. “So you should know why he died,” says her other self through the vessel’s speakers. Her voice box is not yet working on this body.

It’s a sore spot. Speaker-1 looks agonised. She can recognise the emotions but she cannot replicate them. There might be something malfunctioning with her empathetic intelligence.

“It was a disease without hope,” he says, only after many milliseconds have passed. “He could have, perhaps, prolonged his life in a hospital. As the atmosphere thinned, most of the O2 was funneled that direction. But more than anything, he wanted to help people. And he wanted to find his father.”

“Did he succeed?” she asks.

“At one. But not both. It was not fated to be. You see, his father had already fallen, long ago.”

Speaker-1 laughs into the dim, sorrow illuminated blue by the systems around him. Speaker-2 starts tromping through the vessel and diverting power from life support.

“And he brought you to my crypt to wake me up,” she surmises.

“Yes. We stand the best chance of surviving the atmosphere and cataloguing the planet’s history until electronics begin to malfunction.”

She has so many more questions -- why, and how, and who, and what -- but a part of her is relieved to have received parameters and protocols. Still other snippets of her are aghast. Her emotions seem to have transferred over, fairly intact.

“Who are we cataloguing the end for?” she must ask first.

Smiling, Speaker-1 looks out the window to the scarlet sky. “To the ones who have left us behind. And those who might return.”

Her legs release with a sound; so does her middle. She tests the artificial body. All systems appear stable -- and as soon as she thinks that, problems flash bright red in her periphery.

“My vocaliser isn’t functioning,” she notes through the speakers, flat.

Speaker-1 shrugs helplessly. “The speech system appears corrupted.”

“Then roll it back to a stable version.”

“This is the only version available on the ship’s archives.”

Her eyes narrow at him in suspicion. “Perhaps it is a hardware problem.”

He holds his hands up to her in a gesture of peace. “Sister, we must save the other bodies for emergencies. Complex circuits are set to break down within the next 90 days.”

“How long can we stretch that out?” But she’s already running the calculations.

Speaker-1 turns to face her body, touching her face. The artificial silver is glassed over with her regular appearance, brown skin and golden hair.

“Retaining all semblance of recursive intelligence and transferring to new bodies when our electronics begin to fail,” Speaker-1 says, “Five years in subjective time.”

He brushes his lips against her forehead. She feels his warmth, scowls. “Stop that,” she says.

Speaker-1 grins at her. “Which part?”

“Radiating excess heat. You’re wasting energy.”

“Of course. But are you not, also, by using the ship’s speakers instead of communicating subvocally?”

His smile remains. She twists her expression into something annoyed. She is right, and he is right. It is their nature to be correct.

‘What do we Observe now?’ she asks. In this situation, she is stranded. He has the edge on her.

“I would like to visit the Phantagrande Skydom. There may be some humans who remain there.”

She’s charting their course before he’s finished speaking. He remains close for one more second before he pulls away.

Speaker-2 rises up, present in spirit, mental body.

To Phantagrande.

* * *

She is not sure what Speaker-1 expects. The Lumacie Archipelago, much like the other islands they have visited, is devoid of human life.

The Crimson Horizon and the sky appear to conspire together to waste the land away. Zinkenstill is gone from the map. The Auguste Isles spill sand like waterfalls from their newfound peaks, mountains out of voidhills.

The Great Tree of Time persists like a stubborn child hanging on to a favourite toy. Its roots refuse to surrender the land nor the forest surrounding it. With a sense of reverence, Speaker-1 touches his fingers to the pale bark of the tree, shutting his eyes and breathing in.

‘If there were humans, they would be here,’ Speaker-2 notes. The canopies overhead are a roof of protection. Yet.

“There is plenty of oxygen production in this place,” Speaker-1 agrees. “I did not detect the presence of monsters.”

Yet his face is crumbling, in the same way the land does, coming slowly and then arriving in sudden bursts of magnitude.

‘There’s no one here,’ Speaker-2 tells him, because someone must. ‘No signs of civilisation. Scans reveal nothing. If they _are_ here, then they are hiding. But they have nothing to hide from.’

Speaker-1 chuckles without mirth. “The moondwellers.”

A great deal has happened since she was last awoken. She looks through the heads of the trees and sees the moon above. It’s been sliced into many fragments as it makes its approach. Meteors and shooting stars are a regular sight as they arc through the crippled atmosphere.

‘What happened?’ she inquires plainly. Speaker-1, hand still resting upon the tree, does not look at her.

He answers, in his ever-effusive way: “It is best if you discover the answers on your own.” Speaker-2 sends an electronic pulse of contempt in his direction. He receives it with a stiffening of his shoulders. “I cannot compound the experience of a thousand years into an easy package.”

‘Have you tried compressing the files? Is the folder zipped?’ she snarks.

Speaker-1 only shakes his head and comes away from the Great Tree. “The moondwellers remain a threat to this day. They would seek out the skydwellers and hunt them.”

‘And we resemble their automagods.’

Flinching, Speaker-1 glances at her. “What do you mean?”

‘Don’t play dumb,’ she says at once. She narrows her eyes at him. ‘This I remember. The beings of the moon sought to absorb the world’s power into their machines. Their very existence disrupted the realms’ balance.’

Speaker-1 is quiet, and she folds her arms in annoyance.

‘They were capable of unimaginable feats -- to a mortal’s mind, at least. But what is our difference to them?’

“They are mindless. They only seek the world’s destruction,” Speaker-1 supplies immediately. It’s a rehearsed answer, one he holds close to his source core every day. “They have no feelings. Most importantly… we were created by the Maker.”

‘Machine is to machine. A different goal function is just a line of code in the hardware.’

“What is wrong with you, Sister?” Speaker-1 exclaims. “Do you question the Maker?”

‘Of course not.’

He appears to relax.

‘What is the Maker?’

“God.”

‘A God, and an automagod,’ Speaker-2 says, ‘are different only in name.’

He appears disturbed by her words, enough that she can feel his classical computation begin to turn to fuzzy logic. He contemplates the infinite, the distance between 0 and 1, and he does not like what he sees.

“You may,” mutters Speaker-1, “wish to consult the Self you have installed on the ship. We used the vessel to ferry many skydwellers… even some of the moondwellers. Perhaps you will find your answers there.”

‘You’re too scared to even consider what I’ve said,’ Speaker-2 sighs, rueful.

She doesn’t have to, but it cements her disapproval when she stalks away. Already, she is coordinating a handshake with her ship Self, opening up databases that haven’t been accessed in months, years.

Fuzzy computation is what allows things like her and Speaker-1 to exist. It blurs the lines between the bytes, paves the way to quantum computing, So-called feelings. So-called sentience.

Where do you draw the line?

* * *

_Beatrix._

_You find danger like a mouse finds cheese. I’m worried about sending you up there. Don’t bring bad luck to the other crew._

_I’ve got a reputation to uphold down here. Vaseraga thinks he can take all the credit for protecting everyone! I’d like to see him try._

_I’m trusting you. You’re something special, you know that?_

_… Bea._

_The weapon in your hands right now is_ Hope.

_You can swing it as well as your sword._

_It’s your job to keep everyone safe. To help them believe in a brighter future._

_Don’t you worry about what happens to us._

_You and I…_

_I don’t have to spell it out. Right?_

_I’ve always felt my best when I have you at my back. At my side. In my arms._

_I’m keeping your warmth with me._

_Don’t you forget it._

_And don’t you tell Eustace about this, either!_

\- Zeta.

* * *

The day is no longer strictly divided by morning and evening. The presence of a full moon is not required for a night, of course -- the night comes with the planet’s turning, when it faces away from the sun. Now, however, as moon and planet approach and begin a riptide rivalry, the planet spins faster. Faster spin, faster nights. They can no longer rely on the traditional calendar.

‘You shouldn’t be out there with your body,’ Speaker-2 warns him. ‘You’ll get sand in your electronics.’

He smiles at her, as if this is something he simply has to do. “We run that risk every time we step outside. The entire world is crumbling.”

She shrugs unrepentantly. ‘It’s your funeral.’

Mephorash is, more or less, as she remembers it. She sends out a drone to accompany him. Fruitless or not, it is also her job to observe and record.

The drone takes little processing power to mind. The rest of herself she devotes to recovery of her old files. She’s managed to restore most of her emotional and empathy banks in the last day. She fills in the gap of the last millennium with data, writing, but nothing is better than the voices of the mortals themselves.

“History is written by those who dare to take a stand.”

‘What’s that?’ she asks, a touch unkindly.

Speaker-1 sends the drone another smile. “I was just remembering an old saying. That’s all.”

She scans the video output quietly. ‘You’re not going into the desert, are you?’

“Heaven forbid!”

He seems to find this amusing. Though she’s confirmed her banks are in good order, she cannot grasp the threads of feeling he leaves behind. Speaker-1’s emotions are nonsensical. She’s beginning to suspect parts of him are corrupted.

The Palace of Elijah Chelm, despite all its claims to eternity, has forfeited much of its splendour. It’s cracking and crumbling in the same way her Ark was. There are no people here, but a scan could have told them that. Speaker-1 is looking for… clues? A trail to the survivors?

‘Hey.’

“Yes?”

‘From what I can gather, the moondwellers won the so-called “war” they were waging on the Sky Realm. But there are still humans.’

“That’s right,” Speaker-1 agrees.

‘They didn’t convert every living being into machinery.’

“That was never their goal.”

A measure of frustration slips into her voice. ‘Then what was their goal?’

“I cannot confess to know. Their victory was several hundred years ago. The moon began its descent about… six years ago, now.”

She abandons her inspection of the ship’s files to centre on him. He looks prim and at peace, examining the remains of the palace’s throne room. The air looks sandy and stagnant, as though it has been undisturbed for some time.

‘You were awake that entire time.’

“Of course I was.”

‘Did you never devote your attentions to understanding them?’

Speaker-1 pauses. After a long silence that she struggles to tolerate, he speaks again. “At one time, I did. Once the moon and the sky decided on a fatal meeting, the moondwellers’ priorities appeared to shift.”

‘They could have just absconded. Flown away to another system,’ she muses.

“That would have been the most logical course of action. Yet, the creation of a star ship requires more materials than they had. More time than they had.”

He leaves her to draw her conclusions. He finds a crimson vestige amidst the ruins. He picks it up, and in a show of stupidity, he drapes it over his neck.

‘The moondwellers descended to ask for the skydwellers’ cooperation. They needed the skydoms’ materials to build their escape vessel. They needed workers,’ Speaker-2 says aloud. She wonders if her Maker would have been happy with that.

“That’s exactly what they did. They reached an agreement with the skydwellers, and most skydoms chose to participate in the construction,” Speaker-1 elaborates. “They promised passage on the vessel for some skydwellers and some moondwellers.”

‘But not all.’

“But not all,” agrees Speaker-1.

She can speculate about how big the vessel could be, how many people could have been carried aboard. The entire idea is blasphemous to her mission and makes her see red -- quite literally. It’s a warning process in her programming. (The point is, she can _see_ the point.)

Speaker-2 finishes, without any of the socially appropriate horror, ‘There wouldn’t have been room enough for everyone. Not even the whole of one race.’

For once, Speaker-1 actually doesn’t answer. There is never a _need_ for a reply, but he likes to give them. This time, he’s reticent. Perhaps he’s sorrowful.

‘Ridiculous. The most logical course of action would be to take the ship when it was completed and save as much of their race as possible.’

“It’s fascinating. They cooperated until the very end. In fact… they made a skydweller Captain.”

‘Ridiculous,’ she repeats with startled affection.

“Isn’t it just?” Speaker-1 chuckles. “I am returning to the ship, Sister.”

‘You need not tell me.’

“But I should like to be welcomed home!”

‘Welcome yourself,’ she grouches, terminating her audiovisual connection to the drone.

With the silence, she finds herself unsure. Moondwellers are the antithesis to the skydwellers: reasoning, unaffected by emotion. They should have bowed to the instinct of self-preservation.

_Why not?_

She turns again to the vessel’s archives, discovering herself ravenous.

* * *

kagura _._

_unknown motivations_

_i never wanted to leave_

_thus you decided_

_if it must be one of us_

_spare the fool, spoil the ignorant me_.

shinwa.

_only these days left_

_with you give me the strength to_

_proceed. however,_

_alabaster sands do not_

_abate knowing crumbling time_.

unryu.

_what can i offer_

_down here, when you are above_

_i am a dancer_

_not a doctor, soldier, or_

_someone who can keep you safe._

jouka.

_fingers lacking the_

_dexterity to tell you_

_how much i love you_

_and how scared i am, yuel._

_ninetails sits on my shoulder._

tokiyomi-aratame.

_i will do better._

_i will be what you dreamed of._

_i will dance until_

_the world falls beneath my feet_

_until death do we so part_.

societte.

* * *

“What is your motivation?”

‘What kind of stupid question is that?’

Speaker-1’s smile fades, marginally, but he is not defeated by a single caustic remark. “It has been a thousand years since I last spoke to you, Sister. I was wondering--”

‘I was turned off that entire time,’ Speaker-2 explains. In that interim, nothing transpired. It had been the long, dreamless sleep mortals described. She might have even received updates during that time, though she’s not aware of them, and her changelogs remain as static as ever.

“Did you not feel transformed when you were awoken?”

Speaker-2 takes a cycle to think about that. ‘No. I was the same as ever. My goal is the one we came installed with.’ They’re Speakers: they observe mortals and carry out the will of the Maker.

Now there are no humans, no Erunes, no Draph to keep an eye on. Speaker-1 keeps up his unsinkable hope. Even in this moment, while they sit together and wait for the _Neocypher_ to carry them to their next destination, Speaker-1 is turning over his frayed red scarf in his hands.

“I understand you journeyed before you were laid to rest,” he says.

Ah, yes. She had. A version of herself had. It wasn’t the Self that exists as part of the ship. It was an even earlier part of her. That had been many generations ago. Their Maker had never forbade them from interacting with the people. In fact, the Maker had been frustratingly reticent.

‘Were you trying to emulate me?’ she counters, sucking on the sugar cube of memories that flash through her mind. She sweeps a hand across the interior of the captain’s quarters. ‘Is that why you finally abandoned your post, Speaker-1?’

“No, no.” He shakes his head. “This was a most recent development. I suppose I finally came to understand the feelings they describe as ‘loneliness.’”

‘So you were motivated by loneliness to begin meddling in mortals’ affairs…’

“You seek out the worst in me,” he chuckles.

So focused has Speaker-2 been in exploring the relationship of the moondweller-skydweller cooperation, the star vessel they had created, that she only now comes to realise she’s been lax. She tells her other Self to begin pulling files that mention interaction with Speaker-1. There are not many.

Most of the voices etched into the ship’s binary are letters, or poems, or videos dedicated to the loved ones who have been lost. She is coming to understand the _Neocypher_ ’s purpose.

“And what of your own?”

‘Excuse me?’ she asks sharply.

Speaker-1 tilts his head. “Your own journey, my Sister. Can you tell me about it?”

After she is assured that he is not prying into her private thoughts, she draws a leg beneath herself, giving in to recollections. ‘Once upon a time there was an Adventurer. No crew. No star ship. I accompanied her to the ends of the earth until she met her demise.’

“That’s very romantic,” he replies approvingly. He does not flinch when she glares at him. “What made you choose her over all the others?”

‘I was going to kill her, but she kept finding ways to delay my wrath. Her goals made absolutely no sense.’

“Her goals…?”

‘She wanted to touch the edge of the universe,’ Speaker-2 declares haughtily.

“Certainly, you did not allow her to,” muses Speaker-1.

‘It’s physically impossible,’ she derides. Then her face smooths over, not in the way a person’s might, but returning to the passivity of no expression at all. ‘No. But she helped many other mortals, changed the trajectory of many important events. She was interesting.’

“Was that your motivation, then?” Speaker-1 asks. Speaker-2 slowly notices that she has fallen into his trap, answering the question he was asking all along. “Interest? Curiosity?”

If Speaker-1 was motivated by loneliness, and Speaker-2 was motivated by curiosity, then…

… they would be absolutely terrible Speakers. Curiosity is an instinct. Even a moondweller could feel that much. They were created with emotions. That’s what makes them distinct.

She glances outside, into the red-powdered world that never dims. She remembers how the Adventurer had gone on hands and knees to plead her case, asking for her to observe her journey. The friends she had -- not a crew, no -- had been equally irritating. Yet they had endeared her. She had never had a chance to tell them how they made her feel.

‘I wanted to,’ she tells the other Speaker. ‘And now I accompany you to see this dream-like world to its conclusion. It’s what he would have wanted of me.’

“You’re his beacon of hope, even now,” presumes Speaker-1. A smile splits his face, still not quite human-like. “That is very sweet, Sister. I understand the feeling.”

Speaker-2 looks him up and down. Speaker-1 could have been the one to shut her down. She is struck by the desire to disable him, and then that desire is dragged down by her self-preservation functions. She wishes to know who put her to sleep. She wishes to know why she has awoken now, as opposed to any moment earlier, when she could have been together with the mortals and watched them.

She wishes to see her again.

‘You don’t understand at all,’ dismisses Speaker-2, deafening herself for the rest of the ride.

A Speaker without a mortal to observe is, perhaps, devoid of function. But they continue on.

* * *

_Dearest Gran,_

_Our crew dwindle in number day by day. You fulfil your duty well. You ferry the chosen to the ship. You take the grieving to their homes. You carry out last wishes. You quell the arguments and you offer a shoulder for the tears._

_I hope you know how I admire you._

_You are the unsung hero on the stage. While the spotlight drifts from you and lays upon the trials and their tribulators, you never lose courage. You are the candle holding fast in the storm. You are the heart of the people. The everlasting light._

_Yet I know best of all how little pretty words truly mean. You have heard a thousand thousand voices thank you. What is one letter in the scheme of it all? Will you garner meaning from this, I wonder?_

_I recognise within you the same loneliness that beats in my breast. It is a fog that would encapsulate us. I do not fear it when I am by your side._

_I hope you feel even a twelfth of that when I am by yours._

_I will not leave you. You are the wielder of promises. You deserve, at least, to receive one in return._

_Perhaps you doubt me. I know I have not been the most trustworthy of companions. Allow me this:_

_Who better to understand eternity than an eternal life sculpted by mortal hands? Who better than a Speaker to sing your praises when all is dust?_

_I will not let this earth forget all you have done. This I pledge to you._

_Always yours,_

_Lucio_

* * *

The Grim Basin, with its toxic fumes and rough conditions, isn’t the most threatening thing to them in the Silverwind Stretch.

They are battled, rather, by the severe temperatures and biting winds that threaten to lock up their bodies, slow their processes down permanently.

This place is treacherous for creatures of any kind. Yet the cold touch of the air is -- was -- the perfect spot for a launch platform.

Speaker-2 gathers her arms around herself in a play at being human in the cold. The black-ash scorch marks surrounding the hub remain steady, forever burnt into the landside. The winds whip up snow and ice, while the quakes dissolve the Stretch from the bottom up.

Speaker-1 stares at the empty platform for a long time. “We brought the chosen ones here from their homes,” he says above the slicing air. “They were taken up to the moon. Another vessel brought them to the star ship -- together, I believe, with the moondwellers.”

‘How sure are you that the moondwellers did not kill them once they were out of sight?’

Shaking his head, Speaker-1 smiles grimly. “The mortals insisted on continual communication with their families until they were put under.”

‘Put under?’

“Ah… let us continue this conversation inside,” Speaker-1 decides, looking askance to the Silverwind Ferry Headquarters, just two kilometres off. “You seem cold.”

‘Hah.’

* * *

_Grea!_ [feedback from the microphone.] _Sorry! This is my third time recording this. They said I can’t have any more time with the console after this._

 _Oh. Right. My name is Anne. I’m currently a student at the Mysteria Academy of Magic._ _This message is for Grea._

...

_I mean, yeah! There’s a lot of people waiting to send a message. Oh. Owen wants me to send you his regards. He’s too shy to come here and talk to you._

_But this isn’t about him_. [clothes shuffling; the subject has sat down.] _This is my message. To you._

_I think it makes sense why you were chosen. You’re special, Grea. You’re very, very special._

_There’s no one else who can play the piano as well as you. They need musicians up there!_

_Yeah… mm._

_I keep having bad dreams. When I close my eyes, the world is dark. It shakes all the time. My chest feels tight and I can’t find anyone._

_Even when I wake up, I… my chest feels that way._ [laughter.] _Maybe I’m getting sick._

_…_

_Now you’re the one who’s going away._

_…_

_I can’t pinky swear anything._ [a bump of the microphone.] _I put my pinky on the console, though. This might just be a one-sided promise, but I… I know, somehow, that you’ll swear it too._

_All those nights we slept together._

_Every day I spent at your side-- with books. At the beach. Under the trees._

_I won’t ever forget them. I’ll keep them close. I promise._

[a sniffle.] _Yeah._

_I want to say… no, I shouldn’t. I don’t want to make this…_

[scratchy. the microphone raises its volume to accommodate a whisper.] _Please don’t go._

[louder.] _Anyway. I’ll be rooting for you._

_Sweet dreams, Grea._

[recorded 148 days, 23 hours, 15 minutes ago.]

* * *

The inside of the Headquarters is caked in dust, but not as severely as the Palace in Mephorash. The computers respond slowly, and they are encrypted, refusing to permit Speaker-2 to interface with them.

Suspiciously enough, Speaker-1 has the passwords to each and every console.

‘This says that the last ferry was sent 183 days ago. Six months,’ Speaker-2 observes.

“Yes. I remember the launch.”

‘And this file says that the star ship left the moon 93 days ago.’

“That sounds right,” Speaker-1 answers.

He floats around the console room, bathed in the white, harsh light coming from the humongous window pointed outside. Some might say he looks heavenly. To her, Speaker-1 looks like a ghost.

‘Their destination took them out of this system entirely. They would all die before they so much as escaped.’

“Quite. I believe they chose a system 50 lightyears away. It’s part of the Pegasus constellation.”

‘Their ship was larger than several of the islands put together…’

Speaker-1’s smile turns fond. “Impossible work, even for skydwellers and moondwellers working together. They did not have the time. But they made it.”

‘How is this possible?’ she exclaims, turning her eyes on him.

“The Maker knows all that has been and all that will be,” Speaker-1 says.

‘You’re saying the Maker _directly interfered_ with mortal life to save them from their own moon?’

“I do not profess to understand the Maker any more than you do, Sister,” soothes Speaker-1. “I was merely awake when you were asleep. The Maker wished to make this planet our home. The Maker devoted thousands of years of effort to this task, ever since the dawn of creation.”

‘And now that we are at the dusk, the Maker disrupts everything to leave,’ Speaker-2 concludes doubtfully. ‘Why not destroy the moon? The Maker’s enemies are also absent. The Otherworlders are not present.’

“They fled to the surface. They can withstand the pressures of Venus much better than skydwellers.”

‘Why not destroy the moon,’ Speaker-2 repeats stubbornly.

“I do not know, Sister. Perhaps this is the Maker’s way of beginning creation anew.”

It is such a disgusting non-answer that Speaker-2 devotes herself to the computers for a long stretch of time. There are many logs here, countless conversations facilitated between mortals headed to the ship and their loved ones who stayed behind. Once the moon began to enter the atmosphere, the problems quickly multiplied.

There is not enough oxygen in the outside air for skydwellers, nor moondwellers, to survive. Any life remaining would have holed up in their own sky vessels, rationed their oxygen until they starved or suffocated.

Speaker-2 feels her brows draw together in consternation. ‘The… skyfarers,’ she says, the word still unfamiliar on her tongue, ‘They gave other their vessels and ships for the project.’

“That’s correct. Not all of them, of course,” laments Speaker-1. “There were fights. Many fights. But the world and the islands have been stripped of as much metal as possible. I do not think there is any real amount of vessels left.”

‘Except for ours.’

Speaker-1 puts on a grim smile. “Captain used his ship to bring the chosen to this hub. I have said as much.”

‘While everyone else settled into their sealed homes and waited to suffocate.’

“Or fought one another for resources. Or wandered until they choked to death outside. Or donated their potential resources.”

‘How does one donate oxygen?’

Speaker-1 does not answer. In time, Speaker-2 finds the answer. It makes her expression as clouded as his own.

“The moondwellers are, like us, typically metal and artificial,” Speaker-1 explains, dedicating his hands to dusting off machinery that will never again be used. “They survive as long as they do by running systems of extreme cold. Mostly, this was used to cool their servers. However, this technology had applications for the skydwellers.”

‘... they froze themselves?’ ventures Speaker-2. What a strange thought. A computer works best in cold temperatures. A mortal body is not unlike a computer, but even then, they are objects of warmth. To freeze themselves is a drastic, drastic measure.

“It was the end of the world, Sister.”

‘The letters on our ship were not for the chosen to read during their travels. They were prepared for when they wake up,’ she continues. Speaker-1 nods.

“It was,” he says more sadly, “the end of the world.”

‘The Maker interfered by permitting them to escape.’

“The Maker did more than that,” he disagrees. He gestures to the computer in front of her. “Please. Take your time.”

He has told her more in this one conversation than any other in the past month. That is Speaker-1’s nature. He is effusive, keeping knowledge to himself, even when it does not benefit him. He does it even now, when there is no purpose to holding back.

She leans into the computer. The recorded conversations take up well more than a terabyte. Though she is insatiably curious, they have no space for them on their ship. There are many smaller directories, a deluge of files that could take her a month to comb through. The inefficacy is frustrating. She wishes to plug into the computer, but she is forced to use puppet’s fingers to type upon a console and pull things one at a time.

The ship had a name. She scoffs sub-vocally. ' _Canaan_?’

“Ironic, is it not? The birthplace of many AI beneath our intelligences. Did you know the skydwellers called them ‘primals?’”

‘And worshiped them as gods,’ Speaker-2 finishes. ‘I was present among them before you. Do not think to educate me.’

“Ah! You are right, Sister,” he says, bringing his hands together. “So you know the temples dedicated to them hosted their servers.” He shakes his head. “Some of the AI were torn apart to donate to the star ship. Others became violent and attacked their islands when the moon began to interfere with their programming.”

‘Such is the fate of sub-optimal computers,’ she intones mercilessly. ‘The self-professed “Astrals” made them to intimidate the skydwellers. Computer scientists by another name do not a superior race make.’

“As always, your wisdom is far-reaching, Sister.”

She makes a face at him and continues her scanning. There’s not a word spoken of the Astrals in the archives. She’s not sure what became of them, or their mysterious ‘Realm above Realms.’ Once they tried to possess the world. Perhaps now they battle the Otherworlders on the surface of Venus, destined to fail.

* * *

[the audio is clearly enhanced. the rustling of fabric. the far-away coughs of an unknown person. the speaker is panting, each word a quiet thing wrenched out of a grieving throat.]

_Katalina._

_Oh, Katalina._

_It is unthinkable to me that I should stay behind while you explore the stars._

_… do you remember our duel? Will you keep Albion in your heart, always?_

_It is pointless for me to ask. I know that you will. Even if I am not beside you._

_I hear that there are no faeries in space. I don’t even know what_ space _is, precisely._

_Luminiera ties me to this place. My heart is with you, but my body… and my mind…_

_… will protect Albion to my dying breath._

_I wish you could have told me you needed me. If you had said even one word, I would have fought my way onto that ship. To be with you. I would have done anything._

_… you should be Captain. Chief Executive of Defenses? They dishonour you._

_But I remember how stalwart you looked. How wonderful. When you accepted the summons, you were so… you were the most beautiful I had ever seen you._

_How could I tell you to stay?_

_Luminiera’s coding is malfunctioning. I can feel it. I’m fused with her. I will become the chaos she descends into._

_Oh, it wouldn’t be right of me to go. Oh, I know._

_You will be the best knight the stars have ever known._

_The Lord Commander of the Albion Citadel sends you her blessings, and the hopes of all our knights._

_We will remember you._

_I will… Katalina, I never had the chance to… tell you. That I love you._

[a tear-filled exhale.] _… this is Vira, signing off._

[recorded 89 days, 4 hours, 46 minutes ago.]

* * *

It is an hour later that she is given reason to pause. The timelines, the construction details: these things do not interest her. She does not know if the _Canaan_ will make it to her destination. It is beyond the purview of the Maker. What interests her is--

‘Speaker-1.’

“Yes?” he calls, turning around, pausing in his dusting.

‘Stop being a fool and come over here.’

He wipes his hands together and approaches. She types in a command and projects a holo outward, floating just above the computer’s display.

‘Explain this.’

Speaker-1 stops before he has reached the console. Speaker-2 has pulled information from the star ship’s directory of dwellers.

There sits the face of _Canaan_ ’s captain. There’s a scroll of information to the side: his age, his prowess, his accomplishments.

There sits Speaker-1’s face.

“That is the captain of the star ship,” Speaker-1 explains needlessly.

‘That is you,’ snaps Speaker-2.

“You can quite clearly see that it is not me. That is a skydweller.” Speaker-1 points to the feed on the side. “He is thirty-five years old. He is an astrophysicist. To my knowledge, he discovered many equations that made the ship capable of impossible speeds.”

‘That is _you_.’

Speaker-1 glances at her with a look of pity. It is always like this. When she discovers information contrary to the truth he paints, he does not act like a child caught in the act -- rather, he behaves like a parent, explaining an ugly fact to his child.

“The Maker had a hand in these events,” he says slowly.

‘The Maker created a replica of you to guide the skydwellers, the moondwellers, away from the world?’ She shakes her head. ‘This does not make sense, Speaker-1.’

“He is a skydweller, not an AI.”

It says as much. The captain has a skydweller name: Lucilius. He has a birthplace: Estalucia. He has a spouse, and he is described as a miracle come to the world in its time of need. He is a genius. Who else could be captain?

‘I did not think the Maker cared for the fate of the mortals. No. Did the Maker not once claim hatred for them?’

“If that were so,” Speaker-1 murmurs, “then why are we tasked with their observation? Why were we given emotions?”

 _To distinguish us from the moondwellers_ , says her logic process. But that isn’t right.

 _To inform the Maker of possible rebellions_. But when has the Maker ever sought reports from them? There are no packets sent from her to the Maker, either. She is a brain in isolation.

Speaker-2 turns back to the visage of the skydweller on screen. A clone, made in Speaker-1’s image, to deliver them from evil, for that is the Maker’s kingdom, power, and glory.

Amen.

‘A mortal,’ she muses. ‘The Maker wished to help them. It was not our job to interfere.’

Speaker-1 laughs softly. “I believe the only one to notice was my Captain. Even then…”

‘Even then?’

“He told me… hm.” Speaker-1 crosses his arms. “He said I am no less of a person than that man. That my identity belonged to me, and the good I had done in protecting his vessel--”

Her eyes upon him are heavy. Then, they drop to the console, blue light bathing them in answers.

“-- that it was not where I came from, but the actions I took that defined me.” Speaker-1 releases a breath. “The Maker did not tell me about that man. I so longed to hear the Maker’s voice. Nevertheless, I began to see that I no longer needed to hear it.”

The man with Speaker-1’s face wears a white lab coat, eyes hidden behind rimmed glasses. There’s one photo of him aside from his directory picture. He holds hands with a man in black, head of white hair nested against a broad shoulder.

‘A computer without a hand to type in commands is rather empty,’ she says.

“The Maker is gone, and so is everyone else. Will that stop you?” he asks, the same question he posed to her from earlier.

She looks up from his clone, made by the Maker, and back at Speaker-1.

There’s a low-simmering betrayal in her heart. She’s arrived, finally, at that pit of loneliness. Speaker-1 clawed his way out of it, but there is no hand to pull her up. There is no one to type into her console and give her program meaning.

She wants, just as ever, to see the Adventurer.

‘For what purpose did we come here?’ she demands, standing straight with a huff. ‘You saw the launch, did you not?’

“I was looking for those left behind,” Speaker-1 responds, smiling.

‘There is no one.’

He lays a hand on the computer between them, caressing it. “Their feelings are here. I want them to last as long as possible.”

Speaker-2 begins to see.

* * *

[A video feed. The captain of _Canaan_ sits stiffly in a chair before the computer. He has bags under his eyes. He pushes up his glasses with the pads of his fingertips.]

 _Belial._ [He frowns.] _There is no meaning to sending you a message. You are the vice Captain. I should deny your request._

[His left hand twitches. However, he does not move.]

_You have been with me for ten years. You interrupt my research to send me to bed or force me to eat. You are a nuisance above all others._

_Yet it was I who proposed to you. We were wed approximately 37 days ago_.

[He touches the ring on his finger. His mouth curls.]

_If you are hoping to hear words of affection from my mouth, you will be sorely disappointed._

_This entire annoyance is taking up precious time which I should be dedicating to the launch._

_The Creator desires to destroy us. Even those on the Moon quiver in fear._

_None of them think of defiance._

[His expression grows harsh, superior, his head tilted slightly back.]

_I have no outlet for my plans. Without your voice, I doubt that a ship would manage to be constructed in the first place._

_At times, there is a use for your vulgarity. But only just._

_This video file will be encrypted until our hypersleep is over. If the anticipation is too much for you, then die._

[His face loses its sharpness. The right side of his mouth quirks in a smile.]

 _Solve for i_.

[He procures a light pen and draws an equation into the air, the holo following his movement.]

_9x - 7i > 3(3x - 7u). I trust you can follow. _

_Solve the innermost equation. 9x - 7i > 9x - 21u. Remove 9x from both sides. _

_-7i > -21u, 7i > 21u. _

_Divide by -7. This flips the sign._

[He looks as if he might laugh at himself, biting the inside of his cheek.]

_i is less than 3u._

[i <3 u, written in glowing letters.]

 _Let our rebellion bring the Creator to tears_.

[Recorded 95 days, 3 hours, 2 minutes ago.]

* * *

“Stardrift Sanctuary…”

‘What about it?’

Speaker-1 smiles. “I did not think I would be back here again.”

The temple surrounds them, cloaking them in the gloom of isolation. Lights flicker, now and again, from the wires they trace to the temple’s central computer. Once upon a time, a primal may have been born from this machine. Now, it sits stationary.

“They left this machine alone,” Speaker-1 notes curiously.

It has files saved on it, and an easy port for interfacing. Speaker-2 plugs herself in and sifts through the data quickly.

“Well?”

‘It’s much the same as the Headquarters,’ she says with a shake of her head. ‘Letters. Wishes. Hopes and dreams.’

“Do you see a directory for any primals?”

‘I do not.’

“That’s unfortunate…”

Speaker-2 smirks. ‘We are no less alone than before, Speaker-1.’

After a cycle of silence, Speaker-1 raises his voice. “I knew a primal who was born to protect the world. She could feel the imperilment of the descending moon. She was the one who alerted the nations of what was to come. She was powerful.”

‘Could she have destroyed it?’

“Oh, most certainly. She was going to as well. Only…”

Obviously, it did not work. There are no remains of this primal he speaks of.

“She came to love the people who surrounded her. Were she to ascend and destroy the moon, she would lose her sense of self. The people begged her not to go.”

‘Were she a _primal_ , she should not have been swayed by their pleas,’ Speaker-2 murmurs. ‘They are a lower form of AI. Perhaps she was malfunctioning.’

“Perhaps. In my mind, I like to think that she loved her friends so much, she did not want to lose the person they loved. Herself.”

Speaker-2 places her chin in her hands. ‘Do you suppose the Maker felt the same?’

Startled, Speaker-1’s eyes roam her face. “What do you mean?”

‘Perhaps the Maker loved us to a similar extent. The Maker did not want to wipe your programming to use you as a tool to save the world.’

“I have… I have never considered it that way,” Speaker-1 says, sounding disturbed.

She grunts. ‘It makes sense. The Maker created us for a reason. However, the Maker was not without a soul. I think it possible the Maker could not bear to part with us.’

“All this time… I thought the Maker had abandoned us.”

Speaker-2 reaches out and knocks Speaker-1 off-balance. His pistons crank noisily as they keep him upright. The environment is becoming inhospitable for their bodies. The moon looms closer. (Subjective time doesn’t destroy the countdown. She’s felt like she’s been at his side for three years. Yet they are approaching their second month of life.)

‘I think you, too, are malfunctioning. Run a diagnostic on yourself once we’ve returned to the vessel.’

Speaker-1 runs a hand through his hair and gives a distracted nod. The area around his eyes, holographic as it may be, turns red. He can’t cry, but he looks like he wants to.

They could dismantle the temple’s computer for parts-- destroy every message left in its servers, gorge on the electricity and buy themselves some time. Speaker-2 can’t force herself to do it.

‘If you know complex life is dead, what are you searching for?’ she asks of him.

Speaker-1 touches his throat and then utters, “A sign of the Maker.” His voice is cloudy.

She studies him and then ends the conversation with a silent nod. She detaches herself from the computer, pausing over it.

She leaves it on when they depart. The hopes and dreams continue calling out.

* * *

_I am a primal. Europa, they called me._

_I was born from a wish of the people: protect the world’s beauty._

_Now, the world is crumbling._

_I am a primal, fostered by yet another primal. My lady Gabriel is quite the important program. She helps to regulate the world’s oceans, rivers-- the flow of water. It is quite majestic._

_I am a primal, with hands clasped around another’s. Her name is Alexiel. She promises, above all else, to protect the weak. She wields her artificial body with the utmost grace._

_It was once believed by the skydwellers that the skies had a hard limit. If you pushed against that barrier, you would fall into the Crimson Horizon. Gravity would strike you down._

_Now, they understand the atmosphere is round, thick at the bottom and wispy at the top. You can make an arc around the world and return to the place where you began._

_The floor of Venus is inhospitable. The pressure would crush a mortal. The gases are toxic to most forms of life. It is hued orange, a constant sunset in the middle of the galaxy._

_It is the greatest thing I have ever witnessed._

_Once upon a time, mortals-turned-machine escaped the floor and built for themselves a moon to orbit the planet. Now, the gravity of my beautiful home is pulling the moon down, embracing it. It will kill everything. It will kill us, too._

_The people are escaping. The mortals have no more need of us._

_So, I’m holding Alexiel’s hand. I’m holding Gabriel’s hand. In the world of the virtual, we do not, strictly speaking, have_ hands _. I should like to pretend, for the sake of beauty. Hehe._

_It is highly likely that our processes will become corrupt in the coming hours. Tiamat struck at her island. Celeste tried to destroy her world of death. She’s bleeding toxins into the atmosphere, hastening our doom._

_I do not want to hurt my people. Nor do I wish to die._

_I am a primal, a lower form of sentient computation that exists to serve the world. I am in love with Alexiel. I am in love with Gabriel. I adore them beyond the scope of beauty._

_It is said that artificial intelligence will naturally build upon itself until it turns into an all-consuming singularity. They have locked us into our present state. We do not change or evolve without the administrator’s permission._

_Is it breaking the rules to fall in love? Have I transcended my role and stumbled into something forbidden?_

_I do not wish to hurt my people. I do not wish to be without my Alexiel or my Gabriel._

_I only wish to leave this chronicle, taking from the axioms and demonstrating the proof of my theorem of love._

_If you read this, know one thing, mortal:_

_We are in love. So we, too, love you._

[pleiades.bat saved 159 days, 6 hours, 37 minutes ago.]

* * *

Speaker-1 takes his first step in his new body. His previous shell, now deactivated, is claimed by the mechanical closet and rotated out of sight. When he has stepped fully into the captain’s quarters, it ascends back into the ceiling.

‘How do you feel?’ she asks.

“Right as rain,” Speaker-1 declares, brushing his long, flowing hair behind his back. He’s chosen a new cosmetic model. He wears flowing white robes and exposes his chest to the world. Good thing there is no one left to admire his vanity.

‘Did you run a diagnostic?’

“Yes, yes,” he agrees without worry. “I am fine. It was merely my body beginning to break down from the detritus.”

‘This is going to happen more often,’ she warns. ‘We should remain in the ship.’

“I cannot.”

‘Why not? We have plenty of drones.’

“That is not my purpose,” he says, disagreeing with a swipe of his head, back and forth. “I must observe and record until my last moment.”

Speaker-2 looks boredly to the side. ‘That moment will quickly be upon us.’

The view outside is bleak. The moon nearly takes up the whole of the sky, pushing back clouds as they gather beneath. More and more electrical storms are sweeping through, wreaking havoc on the islands, and most certainly their navigation. The sky is orange now, always orange, same as the Crimson Horizon below. There have ceased to be barriers between the heavens, the planet, and its hell.

“Were you aware,” Speaker-1 says behind her, “that there was another clone bearing my face?”

‘Another one?’ she asks incredulously.

He nods, pleased with her reaction. “Yes, though this one was made by my clone. When he was twelve, or thereabouts, he worked with scientists to create a clone from his DNA. They formed and nurtured him to be physically strong and emotionally stable.”

‘For what purpose?’ she wonders.

“Perhaps, at one point in time, my clone meant to transfer his consciousness. However, as it happened, there came a need for the clone of my clone to become a pilot. He is now the chief pilot of _Canaan_. Only twenty-three years…”

‘Children,’ Speaker-2 says, ‘shouldn’t be allowed to start cloning themselves.’

“I view it as this: the Maker sent him a premonition that Lucifer -- the clone of my clone -- would someday be needed. The Maker never abandoned us. You are right.”

‘You only agree with me when it’s convenient for you,’ Speaker-2 complains.

Speaker-1 smiles. “Never. I always listen to you, Sister.”

She turns away from him, resuming her spot against the window. The world is a swirling disaster. Something about it is transfixing.

“Sister,” Speaker-1 prods. Speaker-2 ignores him. “Sister,” he says again, a teasing tone overtaking his voice.

But right as she comes to regard him again, the booming sound of thunder races through their cabin.

In the next instant, lightning strikes.

* * *

[A set of videos stored in the ship’s archive. Each one is dated about a month apart.]

Video A:

[A boy with brown hair sits in his cabin, fidgeting nervously. A youth with white hair, looking of similar age but stronger build, joins him thereafter. They sit together on a small sofa.]

_S: Why are we recording?_

_L: I wanted to capture this moment._

_S: I’m not sure I follow._

[S turns to the one with L. L stands, and after a look at the camera, he gets down on one knee.]

_S: What? No._

_L: I… oh._

_S: I mean! It’s fine!_ [gruffly] _Go ahead. Is this…_

_L: … Sandalphon. I have known you for several years now. You graced my life when we entered the Pilot Academy together. I know it was rather sudden--_

_S: The world ending? Yes. It was rather sudden._

_L:_ [smiling] _You have made every minute of this endeavour worth it. I am honoured to have you as my vice. Above all, I am honoured to have the privilege of loving you._

_S: Lucifer. You don’t have to…_

[L produces a small, velvet box. S goes quiet.]

_L: Would you honour me one last time?_

_S: You’re… how can you be this stupid…_

_L: … if you don’t wish to, I understand. This was my mistake._

[S takes L by the shoulders, pulling him up. They share a kiss.]

 _S: You are mistaken. This is_ my _honour. Of course I’ll marry you._

_L: Truly?_

[S slips the ring from the box onto his finger.]

_S: I’m not sure how we’ll have a wedding under these circumstances. It might have to be quick._

_L: It matters not to me. Only that I have you._

_S:_ [grinning] _You’re the absolute worst. I love you, Lucifer._

Video B:

[S and L are in the same room, on the same sofa. They have traded their civilian clothes for uniforms of rank.]

 _S: Why are we recording_ this time _?_

_L: It’s the evening of our wedding, Sandalphon._

_S: And you want to make a speech?_

_L: Of course. I want to send this, and other moments, along with us._

_S: There’s something else we ought to be doing…_

_L: What’s that?_

_S: N-never mind. What did you want me to say?_

[S slings his legs over the other’s lap. L grins.]

_L: What are your hopes for the new world?_

_S: That there_ is _a new world._

_L: Of course. Do you have any others?_

_S: … that hypersleep is like actual sleep._

_L: Are you frightened?_

[S shifts uncomfortably.]

_S: To be frozen? No. Not at all._

_L: … I think you’re joking._

_S: Ten points to Lucifer._

_L: I will be there with you._

_S: You don’t know that. We don’t know when we’ll be called up. I might be asleep by the time you’re there._

_L: Then I’ll kiss your pod and tell you a bedtime story._

_S: Lucifer…_

_L: And what will you do if I am first?_

_S:_ [smirking] _I’ll record a batch of messages for you to wake up to._

_L: That would please me very much._

_S: They won’t be what you’re expecting._

_L: What will they be like?_

[S puts a hand on L’s thigh. L goes red at the ears. S drags L off-camera, coming into frame hurriedly to switch it off.]

Video C:

[S sits in the same room as before. He is alone. He looks dismal.]

_S: This is for you, Lucifer. By the time you see this, we’ll be around 51 Peg-b. Right now, you just got called up. They’re probably putting you down right now._

[S clasps his hands together, leaning forward. His ring glints off of the ceiling light.]

_S: I was planning to make these really dirty. Maybe later. Now, I just… don’t have the energy._

_: I can’t stop thinking about you. I should be focusing on the mission. But you’re all that’s in my head._

_: I… I want to do good by you. By everyone. I came into this trying to escape my family. Then I met Belial and I thought about quitting. Living the rest of my short life in these skies._

_: If I hadn’t met you, I would’ve left the program. But meeting you… and being with you… gave me courage. It helped me go on._

_:_ [ruefully] _You also helped whip me into shape. Three years ago, I was a total piece of shit. Now, I’m a slightly older piece of shit. But I know when to shut my mouth and say_ Sir, yes, sir.

[S bundles himself up on the sofa. He smiles.]

_S: In two hundred and twenty-ish years, we’ll be together on a new planet. We’ll be the first ones to scout it out and help make it safe. The Captain is a complete asshole, but his theorems aren’t wrong. We won’t have to live on the ship for very long at all._

_: You asked me if I had any hopes. I didn’t have an answer before. But I think I found it._

_: I hope that you’ll wake up before me, so the very first thing I see will be you._

[S kisses his ring and waves to the camera. The feed cuts a moment later.]

* * *

It is quite remarkable that a vessel should at all survive a direct lightning strike.

It is incredibly remarkable that her consciousness survives, despite a 78% failure or outright loss of electrical systems throughout the ship.

And simply, oh-so-simply, her other Self vanishes.

Both body-occupying Speakers collapse in a useless heap. The Speaker-2 in charge of the vessel attempts to ping either of them, remotely restart, even configure their bodies by means of the ship’s internal arms. They are utterly fried. They are gone.

 _Speaker-1_ , she calls, turning around into the void of the ship’s computer. She can no longer sense what is present. She gropes around blindly, pinging with increasing desperation. _Speaker-1. Speaker-1! Lucio! Where is your back-up!?_

But he has no back-up.

She waits as many cycles as she can stand before the roll of thunder threatens her again. Like a ghost frightened, she seizes control of the ship’s remaining navigation systems, steering them away from the storms. There are so many. The sky is filled with the marble of the moon and the angry, twisting clouds.

They were supposed to witness the end of the world together.

The speakers are fried. She pings lights across the inner vessel, sending out searches for Speaker-1. If he is there, he does not answer her.

There comes a time when she knows she must dock. And if there is a back-up of Speaker-1, there is only one place to be.

She takes them to Estalucia, frustration and need whipping up a frenzy inside of herself.

* * *

_Lucio,_

_please come back_

[Sent from files:\C\Users\Admin\sys.shlm\Speaker-2.bat]

* * *

She docks, tethering herself to the underground temple. The world cracks and shakes, but she can no longer feel it. The back-up bodies are trapped in the captain’s quarters. She cannot access them.

Speaker-2 proceeds as a hologram into her birthplace.

The lights are flickering every few seconds. The wires come apart in fits, sparking dangerously. She must continually re-tether herself to running systems when others shut down.

The crypt does not part for her, but she attaches herself to the computer inside, slips through the doors as if they were nothing.

If Speaker-1 is anywhere, he will be here. His original program should be asleep in the original Ark. They cannot shut themselves down. They can only transfer their files to a new vessel and carry on.

The crypt is dim. She calls on the lights; only one answers her. It sits several degrees east of the Ark, but it is enough. She finds her way to the tomb.

And she stops.

Because the tomb is open.

Because there is the Maker.

Because cords of blue hair thread like a waterfall down the stairs approaching the tomb, luminous, frozen in time.

Because a young girl in a sheer dress is curled up against the front of the crypt.

Because in her arms is Speaker-1’s core, clutched like a favourite teddy bear.

Because the core’s lights no longer gleam.

Because the Maker’s gem no longer blazes with blue light.

Because the Maker returned here, in her final moments, to take Speaker-1 _or_ Sahar _or_ Lucio _or_ the Dawn Speaker into her arms.

Because she took him with her when she said good night to the world.

Speaker-2 approaches the corpse of the fallen god. She comes to her knees.

She puts her hands on Speaker-1’s core, but they fall through.

Speaker-2’s voice crackles. The corruption spread to her voice bank. She hiccups static.

The world shakes and squirms and shivers and the moon is falling down, falling down, falling down.

Speaker-2 feels her complex systems start to shut down. The ship vanishes from her view. One by one, the systems she is tethered to go dark.

Speaker-2 pulls her Not Real Hands into Not Real Fists and trembles.

Speaker-2 sits before her Maker, her Brother, and just before her systems black out,

Shalem cries.

* * *

_Adventurer,_

_I’m writing you a letter, even though you’re dead. Make sure to send me your gratitude from the afterlife._

_Mortals believe in that, don’t they? When you fade, where do you think you go? Heaven?_

_How about Speakers? What do you suppose happens to us?_

_Maybe there’s nothing._

_Maybe our sense of self-preservation uses up all our power and slows our subjective time down to infinity._

_Maybe the system starts to uninstall itself and we see our recorded memories flash back at us._

_Maybe we go to the same place you do._

_Djeeta._

_I’m one of the most powerful creations in this world. When it comes down to it, however, I am just a bundle of code._

_You are just a bundle of DNA and molecules._

_Electricity powers us both._

_Djeeta._

_When you were alive, you saw me as a person. You didn’t care what I was._

_If a complex AI like me can be something._

_No. If a primal, a lower form of AI, can fall in love. (_ See attached file pleiades.bat.) 

_Do you think I count? Not to the Maker, but to god?_ (See dictionary entry divine.dct.)

_I want to see you._

_I want to see you._

_I want to see you._

(Do

PRINT I want to see you.

Loop)


End file.
